


The Praetorian Guard

by Dryad



Category: The X-Files
Genre: After Deadalive, Other, R (language), before Empedocles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sed Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening: Loop Guru - [Bangdad](http://youtu.be/PVm6mgBCG5w)
> 
> Originally written for the X Files Lyric Wheel: The Literary Wheel.

~*~

 

"Jesus _Christ_ ," he whispered, standing astonished on the threshold,  
one hand on the handle of the half-open door, staring at the vision  
before him.

"Not quite," Fox said wryly. "Can I come in?"

Bryan stepped back, speechless. Everything was the same; hair, skin  
tone, hazel eyes. His neighbor was too thin, though, and the  
atmosphere around him dangerous. The fading marks on his cheeks  
did nothing to lessen his beauty.

Fox looked around the living room, the slightest smile on his lips. "So,  
how are you doing?"

"Uh, okay, I guess," Bryan answered, forcing himself to blink. "Jesus  
Christ."

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say that the reports of my  
death have been exaggerated, but in all honesty, I've always thought  
that line belonged to the movies and badly written tv shows. I, um..."  
Fox frowned and glanced down, picked at his cuticles.

"You want a quickie?"

"Uh, yeah. That would be great."

Bryan motioned towards his new leather couch. "Get comfy. I'll be  
back in a flash."

In the bedroom, Bryan practically dumped the contents of the dresser  
onto the floor in the haste to open the top drawer. Where the hell was  
it? He always kept Fox's stuff separate from everything else, in that  
little suede bag.

"There you are," he muttered, pushing aside a couple of Jesse's scarves.  
Bag in hand, he shut the drawer, did a double-take as he caught a  
glimpse of himself in the dresser's mirror. He didn't think he'd ever  
seen himself looking quite so...mind-boggled.

Fox Mulder.

_Holy fucking shit._

"I like your couch," Fox said as Bryan strode back into the living room.  
"You've got good taste."

"Thanks," Bryan sat on the coffee table and opened the bag. He  
removed a pair of nail scissors, an emery board, an orange stick, and a  
buffing stick. "I should really soak your hands first - "

Fox shook his head. "Don't have the time today. Scully's coming over  
for dinner."

"Of course," Bryan said, inspecting Fox's hands. The man's nails were  
a mess. The cuticles were dry and cracked, peeling around the edges,  
while the nail beds themselves were ridged, split unevenly at the  
ends, and spotted with white flecks.

Death didn't generally mean a person got their full complement of  
vitamins and minerals.

"You still dating Vijay?"

Bryan snorted, clipped a hangnail close on Fox's right thumb. "We  
broke up. I won't go into all the horrible details, but let's just say that  
a sugar daddy was involved. Now I'm not a prude by any means, but  
even I have to draw a line in the sand somewhere."

"So I haven't missed too much then."

Define 'much'. "I've got a new man in my life now, though, and he is  
fan- _tastic_. My god, his name alone is priceless: Ulysses Grant  
Washington," he nodded at Fox for emphasis, then said, "the fourth."

Fox's mouth twisted. "He must be grateful he's not having kids."

Bryan could feel his imaginary second pair of arms wanting to flap.  
Danger, Will Robinson! He didn't dare look up. The bitterness in the  
other man's tone spoke volumes, but he wasn't quite sure which  
volumes they were. Was it a _'my partner's having a baby and I'll be_  
left alone' panic, which he highly doubted, considering Dana's nearly  
daily trips to the apartment across the hall, or an _'I've missed so  
damned much'_ kind of thing? Maybe it was simply jealousy.

Dana hadn't told him who the father was, but he assumed it was Fox  
and not that big bald guy she'd brought around a few weeks back.  
And he didn't think it was her new partner either. Mistah New Yawk  
was too bland, too Dudley Do-Right compared to Fox.

"He is, but his brother's determined to pass along the horror. They  
both work at Gallaudet," Bryan leaned back and judged his work. Not  
bad. Not bad at all. "Did I tell you his brother's named Andrew  
Jackson Washington?"

"And I thought Fox was bad."

"I like your name," he said mildly, reaching for the orange stick. "When  
Eliza was born, Jesse wanted to call her Amanda Lynn, but I refused to  
name our daughter after a musical instrument. Thankfully we both  
agreed that Baird was perfect for our baby boy."

Fox didn't answer, and for a few minutes only their breathing and the  
rasp of the emery board against keratin broke the silence.

"Coming out was the second scariest thing I've ever done," offered  
Bryan, continuing when he felt the heat of Fox's gaze. "My parents  
haven't spoken to me since. If it hadn't been for Jesse and the kids, I  
don't know if I'd be here today."

The grandfather clock in the hallway rang, the hundred year old bell  
chimes mellow and soothing. Outside, several car horns beeped  
angrily at one another, and Scrooge mewed at the bird trilling  
lovesongs on the telephone cable attached to the building.

"What...what was the first scariest thing?"

"Becoming a father. I don't regret it now, but at the time I was  
terrified. I mean, how could I, an eighteen year-old man, be  
responsible for a defenseless human being? I couldn't even keep my  
own room clean! Coupled with how unsure I felt about my own  
sexual orientation, well. . ." he began buffing Fox's nails, wondering if  
he had gone too far. Perhaps he was presuming too much. Maybe Fox  
didn't want to have anything to do with Dana or her baby.

He could understand the feeling, he hadn't wanted anything to do  
with Jesse or Eliza in the beginning, either. Ultimately he'd felt too  
guilty to stay away, especially after her grandmother died and she'd  
been all on her own. On their wedding day the only one who was  
sure he wasn't doing the right thing had been him.

"Bryan?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm done."

"Oh, sorry," he blew any remaining dust off of Fox's fingers, put his  
tools in the bag. He followed Fox to the door, desperate to break this  
ridiculous appearance of normality. It wasn't every year you met  
someone you liked, mourned their passing, and then had them show  
up at your door a few months later.

Fox put one hand on the doorknob, hesitated, and turned back  
towards him, eyeing something fascinating on the floor. "Um, thanks  
for keeping an eye on Scully."

Bryan shook his head. Enough of this macho bullshit. He reached out  
and swept the other man into tight hug. "Welcome back. Next time,  
leave a note, okay?"

Fox returned his embrace equally firmly, drew in a couple of deep  
breaths before stepping back. He sniffed and nodded, managed a  
shaky, "See you later," and was gone.

While waiting for the water for his tea to boil, Bryan wandered over  
to the big bookshelf. Running his hand along the shelf, he searched  
until he found _Les Miserables_ , reminded of a passage in Book Three.  
Now, if only he could remember which page it was on...ah.

_'He is the son of one of those_  
brigands of the Loire, but children  
are innocent of their fathers' crimes.' 

Bryan shook his head. The irony of it was terrible to contemplate.  
Children might be innocent, but the truth always came out, regardless  
of who might be hurt.

He went to his desk and flipped open his address book, scanned for the  
name, punched the number on the dial, waited the requisite number of  
rings, hung up, redialed.

"What."

"Louis, it's Bryan."

"So it's true."

He let out a long sigh. "Yeah. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. If he shows any signs of changing - "

"It's too late for that. I don't know what Dana did, but so far he's the  
only normal survivor out of everyone who's been returned."

There was a long pause.

"It could be that his previous exposure to the black oil gave him some  
kind of immunity," he said, toying with a Loonie from his last trip to  
Montreal. "That's my best guess. I think out of everyone, he and Dana  
have the best chance of figuring out our best defense. Spender did us a  
huge favor when he took her."

"Maybe. You got anything else for me?"

"Nope."

"Call me if something happens."

Bryan put the phone back in its cradle. He gathered the bag left on the  
coffee table and brought it back into the bedroom, tossed it on top of  
the dresser. He fingered the MUFON cap hanging off the top-left  
corner of the mirror. Softly, he said to himself, "'One cannot defend  
oneself against those brats. They take hold of you, they hold you fast,  
they never let you go again. The truth is, that there never was a cupid  
like that child.'"

Fox Mulder.

Holy fucking shit.

~*~


	2. The Literary Wheel Quote

At the physician's orders, a camp bed had been prepared beside the  
sofa. The doctor examined Marius, and after having found that his  
pulse was still beating, that the wounded man had no very deep  
wound on his breast, and that the blood on the corners of his lips  
proceeded from his nostrils, he had him placed flat on the bed,  
without a pillow, with his head on the same level as his body, and  
even a trifle lower, and with his bust bare in order to facilitate  
respiration. Mademoiselle Gillenormand, on perceiving that they were  
undressing Marius, withdrew. She set herself to telling her beads in  
her own chamber.

The trunk had not suffered any internal injury; a bullet, deadened by  
the pocket-book, had turned aside and made the tour of his ribs with a  
hideous laceration, which was of no great depth, and consequently,  
not dangerous. The long, underground journey had completed the  
dislocation of the broken collar-bone, and the disorder there was  
serious. The arms had been slashed with sabre cuts. Not a single scar  
disfigured his face; but his head was fairly covered with cuts; what  
would be the result of these wounds on the head? Would they stop  
short at the hairy cuticle, or would they attack the brain? As yet, this  
could not be decided. A grave symptom was that they had caused a  
swoon, and that people do not always recover from such swoons.  
Moreover, the wounded man had been exhausted by hemorrhage.  
From the waist down, the barricade had protected the lower part of  
the body from injury.

Basque and Nicolette tore up linen and prepared bandages; Nicolette  
sewed them, Basque rolled them. As lint was lacking, the doctor, for  
the time being, arrested the bleeding with layers of wadding. Beside  
the bed, three candles burned on a table where the case of surgical  
instruments lay spread out. The doctor bathed Marius' face and hair  
with cold water. A full pail was reddened in an instant. The porter,  
candle in hand, lighted them.

The doctor seemed to be pondering sadly. From time to time, he made  
a negative sign with his head, as though replying to some question  
which he had inwardly addressed to himself.

A bad sign for the sick man are these mysterious dialogues of the  
doctor with himself.

At the moment when the doctor was wiping Marius' face, and lightly  
touching his still closed eyes with his finger, a door opened at the end  
of the drawing-room, and a long, pallid figure made its appearance.

This was the grandfather.

The revolt had, for the past two days, deeply agitated, enraged and  
engrossed the mind of M. Gillenormand. He had not been able to sleep  
on the previous night, and he had been in a fever all day long. In the  
evening, he had gone to bed very early, recommending that  
everything in the house should be well barred, and he had fallen into a  
doze through sheer fatigue.

Old men sleep lightly; M. Gillenormand's chamber adjoined the  
drawing-room, and in spite of all the precautions that had been taken,  
the noise had awakened him. Surprised at the rift of light which he  
saw under his door, he had risen from his bed, and had groped his  
way thither.

He stood astonished on the threshold, one hand on the handle of the  
half-open door, with his head bent a little forward and quivering, his  
body wrapped in a white dressing-gown, which was straight and as  
destitute of folds as a winding-sheet; and he had the air of a phantom  
who is gazing into a tomb.

He saw the bed, and on the mattress that young man, bleeding, white  
with a waxen whiteness, with closed eyes and gaping mouth, and  
pallid lips, stripped to the waist, slashed all over with crimson  
wounds, motionless and brilliantly lighted up.

The grandfather trembled from head to foot as powerfully as ossified  
limbs can tremble, his eyes, whose corneae were yellow on account of  
his great age, were veiled in a sort of vitreous glitter, his whole face  
assumed in an instant the earthy angles of a skull, his arms fell  
pendent, as though a spring had broken, and his amazement was  
betrayed by the outspreading of the fingers of his two aged hands,  
which quivered all over, his knees formed an angle in front, allowing,  
through the opening in his dressing-gown, a view of his poor bare  
legs, all bristling with white hairs, and he murmured:

"Marius!"

"Sir," said Basque, "Monsieur has just been brought back. He went to  
the barricade, and . . ."

"He is dead!" cried the old man in a terrible voice. "Ah! The rascal!"

Then a sort of sepulchral transformation straightened up this  
centenarian as erect as a young man.

"Sir," said he, "you are the doctor. Begin by telling me one thing. He is  
dead, is he not?"

The doctor, who was at the highest pitch of anxiety, remained silent.

M. Gillenormand wrung his hands with an outburst of terrible  
laughter.

"He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has got himself killed on the  
barricades! Out of hatred to me! He did that to spite me! Ah! You  
blood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me! Misery of my life, he  
is dead!"

He went to the window, threw it wide open as though he were  
stifling, and, erect before the darkness, he began to talk into the street,  
to the night:

"Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hacked in pieces! Just look at  
that, the villain! He knew well that I was waiting for him, and that I  
had had his room arranged, and that I had placed at the head of my  
bed his portrait taken when he was a little child! He knew well that he  
had only to come back, and that I had been recalling him for years,  
and that I remained by my fireside, with my hands on my knees, not  
knowing what to do, and that I was mad over it! You knew well, that  
you had but to return and to say: `It is I,' and you would have been the  
master of the house, and that I should have obeyed you, and that you  
could have done whatever you pleased with your old numskull of a  
grandfather! you knew that well, and you said:

"No, he is a Royalist, I will not go! And you went to the barricades,  
and you got yourself killed out of malice! To revenge yourself for what  
I said to you about Monsieur le Duc de Berry. It is infamous! Go to bed  
then and sleep tranquilly! he is dead, and this is my awakening."

The doctor, who was beginning to be uneasy in both quarters, quitted  
Marius for a moment, went to M. Gillenormand, and took his arm. The  
grandfather turned round, gazed at him with eyes which seemed  
exaggerated in size and bloodshot, and said to him calmly:

"I thank you, sir. I am composed, I am a man, I witnessed the death of  
Louis XVI., I know how to bear events. One thing is terrible and that is  
to think that it is your newspapers which do all the mischief. You will  
have scribblers, chatterers, lawyers, orators, tribunes, discussions,  
progress, enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty of the press,  
and this is the way that your children will be brought home to you.  
Ah! Marius! It is abominable! Killed! Dead before me! A barricade! Ah,  
the scamp! Doctor, you live in this quarter, I believe? Oh! I know you  
well. I see your cabriolet pass my window. I am going to tell you. You  
are wrong to think that I am angry. One does not fly into a rage  
against a dead man. That would be stupid. This is a child whom I have  
reared. I was already old while he was very young. He played in the  
Tuileries garden with his little shovel and his little chair, and in order  
that the inspectors might not grumble, I stopped up the holes that he  
made in  
the earth with his shovel, with my cane. One day he exclaimed: Down  
with Louis XVIII.! and off he went. It was no fault of mine. He was all  
rosy and blond. His mother is dead. Have you ever noticed that all  
little children are blond? Why is it so? He is the son of one of those  
brigands of the Loire, but children are innocent of their fathers'  
crimes. I remember when he was no higher than that. He could not  
manage to pronounce his Ds. He had a way of talking that was so  
sweet and indistinct that you would have thought it was a bird  
chirping. I remember that once, in front of the Hercules Farnese,  
people formed a circle to admire him and marvel at him, he was so  
handsome, was that child! He had a head such as you see in pictures. I  
talked in a deep voice, and I frightened him with my cane, but he  
knew very well that it was only to make him laugh. In the morning,  
when he entered my room, I grumbled, but he was like the sunlight to  
me, all the same. One cannot defend oneself against those brats. They  
take hold of you, they hold you fast, they never let you go again. The  
truth is, that there never was a cupid like that child. Now, what can  
you say for your Lafayettes, your Benjamin Constants, and your  
Tirecuir de Corcelles who have killed him? This cannot be allowed to  
pass in this fashion."

He approached Marius, who still lay livid and motionless, and to  
whom the physician had returned, and began once more to wring his  
hands. The old man's pallid lips moved as though mechanically, and  
permitted the passage of words that were barely audible, like breaths  
in the death agony:

"Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah! Septembrist!"

Reproaches in the low voice of an agonizing man, addressed to a  
corpse.

Little by little, as it is always indispensable that internal eruptions  
should come to the light, the sequence of words returned, but the  
grandfather appeared no longer to have the strength to utter them, his  
voice was so weak, and extinct, that it seemed to come from the other  
side of an abyss:

"It is all the same to me, I am going to die too, that I am. And to think  
that there is not a hussy in Paris who would not have been delighted  
to make this wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of amusing himself  
and enjoying life, went off to fight and get himself shot down like a  
brute! And for whom? Why? For the Republic! Instead of going to  
dance at the Chaumiere, as it is the duty of young folks to do! What's  
the use of being twenty years old? The Republic, a cursed pretty folly!  
Poor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he is dead. That will make  
two funerals under the same carriage gate. So you have got yourself  
arranged like this for the sake of General Lamarque's handsome eyes!  
What had that General Lamarque done to you? A slasher! A chatter-  
box! To get oneself killed for a dead man! If that isn't enough to drive  
any one mad! Just think of it! At twenty! And without so much as  
turning his head to see whether he was not leaving something behind  
him! That's the way poor, good old fellows are forced to die alone,  
now-adays. Perish in your corner, owl! Well, after all, so much the  
better, that is what I was hoping for, this will kill me on the spot. I am  
too old, I am a hundred years old, I am a hundred thousand years old,  
I ought, by rights, to have been dead long ago. This blow puts an end  
to it. So all is over, what happiness! What is the good of making him  
inhale ammonia and all that parcel of drugs? You are wasting your  
trouble, you fool of a doctor! Come, he's dead, completely dead. I know  
all about it, I am dead myself too. He hasn't done things by half. Yes,  
this age is infamous, infamous and that's what I think of you, of your  
ideas, of your systems, of your masters, of your oracles, of your  
doctors, of your scape-graces of writers, of your rascally philosophers,  
and of all the revolutions which, for the last sixty years, have been  
frightening the flocks of crows in the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in  
getting yourself killed like this, I shall not even grieve over your death,  
do you understand, you assassin?"

At that moment, Marius slowly opened his eyes, and his glance, still  
dimmed by lethargic wonder, rested on M. Gillenormand.

"Marius!" cried the old man. "Marius! My little Marius! my child! my  
well-beloved son! You open your eyes, you gaze upon me, you are  
alive, thanks!"

And he fell fainting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Silent Kid.
> 
> From _Les Miserable_ s by Victor Hugo  
> Volume V. Book Third.--Mud but the Soul.  
> Chapter XII. The Grandfather

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wondered who did Mulder's nails. I mean,  
> they always look so nice, y'know? 
> 
> Summary translation from Juvenal's _Satires_ 'But who will guard the  
>  guards themselves?'
> 
> Bryan was first introduced in _Country of the Crepescule: Do You Like_  
>  Our Owl?
> 
> Gallaudet is, I believe, the only university for the deaf in the United  
> States.
> 
> The Loonie(y?) is Canada's one dollar coin.
> 
> Thanks to Silent Kid for the quote, which you can read in the next part.


End file.
